


Forward

by Potato_Being



Series: New Vegas [2]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Brain Damage, Canon-Typical Violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-11-19 04:59:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11306172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potato_Being/pseuds/Potato_Being
Summary: He wants answers. About everything.His friends have none to give.





	1. Chapter 1

The Courier came from the West. Or the East. He's not entirely sure. He came into the Mojave though, this was not his home originally. Sometimes he remembers another town, another place, in two different places. His only explanation is, "The town left. It just walked somewhere else."

He's not sure where the town is anymore. Or if there was a town. No, there was a town, he came from the town, but now there might not be a town, and what if he knew people that lived there and they were now gone and he wouldn't have known and has no way to say goodbye and--

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

That's what the doctor says. That's what he says a lot, telling him to keep breathing, and whenever he gets shot the doctor fixes him and tells him off, explaining once again that running into a hail of bullets in a jacket and jeans is not how he's supposed to fight. But he can't hold a rifle. He can't aim a pistol. His hands shake, his right a constant tremor as he tries to raise a gun to protect his friends-- and when he thinks about it that's why he runs forward, a knife instead of a pistol out, because whatever system was there to flip between selfish and selfless actions got smashed with the bullet that tore him apart and now there's only 'protect'.

Boone helps him with his aiming. It's hard, he cries, and Boone doesn't talk much, only repositioning the barrel of his gun when his aim goes wild. It's comforting, when someone much bigger and warmer than him helps him to aim by repositioning his arms and entire stance. He can hear Arcade laughing at them and it's a _good_ sound, so much better than the quiet muttering and heavy breathing as a man who is technically capable of long treks gets winded because he's more used to a 'desk job', as Arcade puts it. 

There's a balance there. Boone, an NCR sniper balancing out Arcade, a Followers doctor, with Marshal in the middle, a complete mess by his own definition, but when he sews shut wounds and sets bones and provides correct doses for pain meds he realises that healing is something he _knows_ , and is something he's good at. The balance shifts in healing's favour.

It's a mess, every fight. Veronica and Marshal are in first, Boone is far back, and Arcade is in the middle. He's hiding something, and it becomes more apparent every time he hits something in the head at long range, or in bad conditions, with a one handed plasma pistol. Marshal asks him.

"Why're you good at guns? Not guns, energy? Energy guns-- ee-ner-gee guns--" Marshal distracts himself with pronouncing the word with an accent, drawing out the sounds.

"It's not me being good, it's luck. A lot of luck."

"Is 'luck' one syllable?" Marshal is immediately distracted-- or he's not, and he's noted Arcade's deflection and chosen to focus on something else.

"Yes."

"Can't re-pronounce that. Look? No that's another word. Ar-cad-eh. Ar-ca-deh. Ga-non, gan-non, g'anon--" He sounds more French with each iteration. Arcade sighs.

"Can you stop?"

"Can _you_ stop. Can-you stop." Marshal says and then goes quiet.

 

It sits below the surface, something just barely noticeable. But it's there. It's an unconscious tensing up when near Legion camps that can't be explained by preparing for a fight. It's not that, it's physical, unconscious, primal, instinctive, and Marshal rips people apart with a knife and a wide-eyed stare Boone only sees on cornered animals and escaping slaves. He doesn't realise he's doing it, not fully. But it's there.

 

His fingers are constantly moving. He's constantly moving. As soon as the hand tremors calm down he's wrist-deep in every machine he can find. He repairs everything, repairs everyone, and his collection of wrenches and spare bolts is constantly growing. Which apparently translates to an obsession with keeping ED-E running.

"There's something about that robot that doesn't seem... all right to me. I'm not saying we shouldn't take it with us. I'm just saying that if it were to 'fall' into Lake Mead and be irreparably damaged... and if you threw an EMP grenade in after it... Well, there are worse things happening in the world, right?" Arcade says, glaring at the eyebot as it beeps at him. Every time they stop, or pause, or make camp on one of Marshal's hastily-written-down missions given by drunks and drifters on street corners, the eyebot hovers near him, making soft sounds that can only be described as 'happy chirping'.

"What's an ee-em-pee?" Marshal asks, eyes wide with an excitement of learning something new.

"It's... a thing. A science thing. It hurts robots. Don't worry about it. Silly Arcade's just telling magnetic field jokes for his own amusement." Arcade says quickly, trailing off into a mutter.

"That… sounds really paranoid, Arcade." Marshal tells him.

"Does it? Does it?" Arcade says, repeating himself with a quieter inflection as he realises what he's just said and begins damage control. Searching for holes in his story, inconsistencies within his words, he's dancing around everything, and Marshal is there in the centre, watching him as he moves through his every action-- he needs to never acknowledge the eyebot again. He does though, he does a lot. He has to, Marshal takes the damn thing with him everywhere, apparently imprinting on it.

 

There's something just underneath Marshal's incessant optimism and joy, something that came out when he was dying, something that came out when he woke up from night terrors, and something that Arcade is not ready to deal with. He has trauma, that much is clear-- it's silent, manifesting apparently as an uncontrollable need to help others, to save others-- and he's not sure where on the spectrum of scary to tragic Marshal's behaviour falls. 

When Arcade asks about it, about Marshal's past, he's brushed off with a chipper 'I have no idea', and then is forced to follow an abrupt change in subject, rivalling Arcade's own skill in deflection. 

He's learned a few things. One, Marshal's not entirely sure what the difference between east and west is. Two, he's not sure where Utah is. Three, he's been a slave. Four, he's at least seventeen, which puts him at several years of wandering. Which in turn means it's very likely he's been wandering for almost a decade, at the extreme end of the spectrum. Five, he definitely has family somewhere. And Marshal is worried they'll find him.

Marshal cries whenever he's too late to help someone. In Vault 11 he sobs on the floor of the room under the Overseer's desk after learning what had happened in full, and how unnecessary the death was. He looks up at Boone, trying to make time move backwards so he can talk people down, but there's nothing. It's just three men in a room of skeletons and destroyed robots. Arcade can feel his heart breaking as he watches Marshal come apart.

He's tiny. He's so tiny, and his instinct is to run towards danger to pull people out of it. He ran at a deathclaw, trying to keep it away from Arcade, and he's not sure whether it's good or bad. Both, probably.

Marshal crawls into his lap, apparently never having learned basic etiquette for social interactions. The kid is tired, falling asleep almost immediately, and Arcade stretches his legs out, pulling Marshal backward onto his chest so he's not forced to sleep upright. Marshal cries against his chest, and when Arcade asks why the only response is 'I don't know my mama'. He knows that's a fair reaction.

 

Marshal seems more uncomfortable than before, shifting awkwardly and wincing as he walks, though he stops acting like something's wrong after a few minutes. He stops them a few times, citing 'toilet time', as he calls it, and vanishing behind buildings. Veronica prods him as they trail behind Boone and in front of Arcade.

"Hey, you're dealing with--"

"Menstruation." Marshal says softly. Veronica nods.

"I've got spare pads if you run low."

"You do?" he's elated. "I didn't have as big a collection after everything, I was scared I'd run out." He beams at her. "I have spare med-x if your cramps get bad."

"I'll keep it in mind." Veronica tells him.

 

He's asking questions. About everything. He sees and understands more than he lets on-- it's almost as bad as Boone, but Arcade is fairly sure he's not going to end up on the wrong side of the varmint rifle Marshal uses if he slips up. Boone, he's not so sure about.

"Tell me about yourself?" Marshal asks. They're in a gas station, Boone's outside doing something or other.

"There's not much to tell, I'm afraid. I'm pretty boring." He says, knowing full well that deflection isn't going to work.

"Arcade, I'm asking you because I'm interested. Don't put yourself down." Marshal says, legs stretched out weirdly on the ground.

"Oh, all right. I'm thirty-ish. Well, late thirties. I was born... west of here. I was an only child and spent most of my time with my mother. My father died when I was young and I never got over it. Oh... and I like medicine and reading books about failed Pre-War socioeconomic policies. Right now, I'm sure you're asking yourself, 'Why hasn't some lucky man scooped this bachelor off his feet?' Like I said, I'm boring." Arcade says, shifting around.

"Why don't you like talking about yourself?" Marshal asks curiously.

"Look, I appreciate that you're trying to be friendly, but I'd just rather not discuss it." Marshal nods slowly, looking hurt, but Arcade isn't going to just tell him everything because he's adorable. He shakes off that adjective about the kid quickly.

 

Veronica is able to keep Marshal's attention, talking about power armour and energy weapons in a way that absolutely captivates the courier. He's an inch shorter than her, and stares up at her like she's sharing secrets of the universe with him. Though that's pretty much his default expression whenever someone begins explaining things to him. 

He has the right mindset for mechanics, though, and is able to unlock most terminals and reprogram most robots. Arcade wonders if that's why he's heading more for the 'army of securitrons' route in regards to the region's steady slide towards outright war. It feels similar to some of the things he's read about pre-War America, though he's sure there was nothing like the Legion back then. 

Marshal finds one of the Vexillarius helmets and wears it for a day until he decides he doesn't like the way it smells and throws it down a hill into a Viper gang camp. Boone gets shot in the leg in the firefight that follows.

"Please hold still." Marshal says quietly, trying to clean the wound. The bullet went through his leg and out the other side, missing the bone, so all Marshal needs to do is clean it properly and bandage it. Boone is trying to continue taking point and refusing to sit still.

"We're not safe here, we have to keep moving."

"You're not gonna be able to move in a few bits if you don't let me help." Marshal tells him.

"Sit down and shut up." Arcade tells him. Boone glares at him but does so, letting Veronica be the one to keep a lookout.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Who was he? A Courier, a courier, a slave? Or a fully-fledged Legionnaire? He has no idea. He doubts he'll ever find out. Or maybe he will.

"There's a house. Three cacti on the hill. It's a… a prickly pear, a saguaro, and a barrel cactus. Needles-- fuck, you know how long it takes to pull needles out of you?" He asks. Arcade nods, not bothering to respond. "It takes a long time. And then you think you get them all, then you move wrong-- bing, another pokey thing getting deeper." He turns to Boone, kicking his feet against the chest freezer he sits on. "I think I ran into a cactus. Or a few. Which way is-- there's-- where's California?" Boone points west. Marshal nods slowly, eyes wide. "Oh. I thought Utah was that way."

"Utah's east." Boone tells him.

"Okay. When did you start being a soldier-man?" Marshal tilts his head, eyes locked on Boone. He sighs.

"A while."

"That's a half-answer. I want a whole-answer." Marshal tells him.

"Seven years."

"You're a sniper?"

"First NCR Recon." Marshal looks down at his feet as he kicks.

"Why'd you no longer-- fuck-- why aren't you any-- why not now? No." He makes a face.

"I got discharged."

"Why?" Boone stands up.

"I'm able to walk, we need to move." He does walk, out of the gas station they hid in and down the road.

"I said a wrong thing." Marshal says, crestfallen.

 

"There's-- mama, I left didn't I? Just left. But… the people left too, there's a-- different places, same people-- it's just desert though, where--" Marshal kicks up dust as he walks, not bothering to lift his feet. He shuffles along the dirt trail, watching as coyotes appear on the ridge, look at him, and then wander off once more. "So if I find… there are holes. Big holes. Big big big…" He gets distracted, spotting agave and rushing to pick it. He hums part of a song as he walks, eating the pear he found in a dumpster.

"Where are you from?" Veronica asks.

"I have no idea!" The grin is back, Marshal's chipper as he speaks. His voice cracks, hitting the high pitches it always does when he's excited. "Got a million-- not a million, a bunch of memories-- got them all stuck in pieces, and I can't put them back together!" He smiles. "Maybe I have siblings, maybe I don't!" Veronica is perturbed but doesn't show it.

"So you don't know where you came from?"

"Utah! A little place in Utah! Oh can we go back to Goodsprings? I sent them some stuff I wanted to make sure the things made it." Marshal says, switching from a happy explanation to a hurried question directed at Boone.

"I'm not in charge."

"Really?" Marshal asks, surprised. "But you're the soldier-man."

"Yeah. Which means I don't lead."

"Oh. So who's in charge?" Arcade stares at the back of his head, wondering how anyone could be this oblivious. Veronica laughed in surprise.

"You are. You're the one in charge." She tells him. His eyes widen as realisation dawns.

"Oh. Oh that makes sense." He says softly. "That makes a lot of sense. So I could pick where we go?"

"Have you not been?" Arcade asks.

"I've been asking if we can go places and Boone says 'okay' to everything. Then we go to those places-- what's Black Mountain Radio?" He fiddles with the pip-boy radio, listening silently to a nightkin ranting to someone else. He closes his eyes, stopping his trek as he focuses on the radio. When the music comes back on he opens his eyes and keeps walking, changing to a jog and then a run as he heads for train tracks. He jumps up onto the metal rails, tapping his foot and grinning as it makes a soft 'clank' sound.

 

Marshal leaves the three at the bottom of the mountain, running up to find out what's happening with the radio. It takes an hour, during which Boone gets more antsy, climbing up rocks to try and find the little courier. Veronica cleans her power fist, shifting on her feet and Arcade takes inventory of everything they've got.

Marshal comes sliding back down the mountain, waving to them and beaming. They watch as a ghoul in a mechanic's jumpsuit walks down along the path. He introduces himself as Raul, and Marshal chatters at him the entire way.

 

The Strip is loud. It's always loud, it's always overwhelming. So Marshal heads through Freeside, talking to everyone happily and returning items he's found. He talks to Benny and Yes-Man, who point him in the direction of the other Families.

 

"Omertas-- they have the fuck huts, oh do you think I could get one of those-- no that's not--" Marshal says, beginning to suggest finding the leather gear the dancers wear and then bailing on that idea as bad feelings surface and reside quickly. He frowns, confused, and then sighs. "Why am I untraceable? I had to be somewhere." He heads for the Lucky 38, muttering about paper trails and then literal trails of paper.

 

"Dusty. Dusty dusty dusty--" Marshal says as he cleans off the counters and tables. Arcade helps, sorting through the junk left around and moving most of Marshal's ever-increasing supply of food into the fridge. "Hi so I found these--" Marshal dumps a variety of tubing, braces, bandages, scissors and scalpels on the freshly-cleaned table. "--Can you help? Sort them? I can-- I can see what needs to go together and how to put it so I can put a person back together but I put scissors with scissors and then get confused when I have more braces in one set than the other." Arcade nods, helping him.

"Do you know where you learned what you know about medicine?" Arcade asks. Marshal shakes his head.

"I think there were some Apocalypse of the Followers-- no reverse that that's not a thing-- where I lived and they helped. Or taught. Um." He goes back to sorting. "


	3. Chapter 3

He's singing. He's sitting on a broken fence in front of crows tossing them food and singing hymns softly. He kicks his feet against the rotten wood, sharing his sandwich with carrion birds. The kid's got a talent, if nothing else, Boone thinks. The crows scatter as he approaches. Marshal offers him a bit of sandwich as well. He takes it. It's simple, Marshal on the fence, Boone sitting on the ground, a simple thing. Boone hands him slices of pear he cuts with his knife.

"Are you happy?" He asks it around a mouthful of fruit. Boone doesn't answer. "Or, not sad? You… you're always quiet. And don't talk to anyone. That's the same thing hang on. You um… is it okay? Coming with me?"

"You'd be dead if I hadn't." Boone tells him. It's not said with malice, more of a statement of fact. Marshal nods in understanding. Boone's silently grateful he took it the way it was intended.

"Yeah but you hadn't have to. And then y-you stayed. And you… I…" he stops, not sure how to phrase it.

"You need help." Boone tells him as explanation.

"I know that. It's sort of obvious."

"Not that way. You needed someone to watch your back."

"Do you watch my butt too?" Marshal asks brightly. Boone stares at him. "Or my shoulders? What about my feet?"

"It's an expression."

"But do you?" Marshal's whole focus is on him now.

"I-- yes." There wasn't much point lying, right?

"Cool." He closes his eyes, a soft smile on his face. Boone wants to grab his face and hold him. He doesn't. He sits and watches Marshal sitting on a fence kicking his legs. "Do you want to do something specific?" The question breaks Boone's train of thought. Marshal is looking at him, eyes entirely too wide and trusting.

"Legion camps." Boone says as a whole thought. Marshal nods and it seems like he'll actually take Boone's wishes to heart.

"Will you tell me about yourself?"

"If you want. It's not really my thing. What do you want to know?"

"Ever take that beret off?" Marshal is smiling, almost teasing as he points to Boone's head.

"No."

"How do you feel ab-about Manny Vargas?" He tilts his head and offers Boone a water bottle. He takes it.

"He was a good spotter." Boone says.

"Weren't you friends?"

"Yeah. We were."

"Not more any? Anymore. Shit." He says, adding the last word softly as he silently berates himself for not speaking right.

"No. When Carla went missing he was the first person I told. He tried to hide it, but I could tell right away. He was glad." Marshal's smile disappears, looking-- it's sad, and Boone can't trace the intent until he remembers that most people show empathy in situations like this. It's weird.

"Will you tell me about your wife?" Marshal's voice is soft, curiosity not present, and Boone knows he's asking as an attempt to help.

"Carla's dead. That's all you need to know." Boone tells him. He takes it as an answer, a whole answer, and drops the conversation. So he does know how to act appropriately.

 

He watches the doctor and the soldier. They're fascinating to him, different focuses hardened into laser-specific actions and paths. Marshal ends up pulling Arcade's glasses from his face as he sleeps, holding them up to his face and looking through. He sees a tiny inscription detailing a prescription on the frame and returns the man's glasses. He slides away and picks through his things. 

Three cacti-- he can't remember his mother. He had a house, he had friends, he had family and now he's alone leading strangers across the Mojave chasing a chip, a gang, an army. They don't deserve this. They don't deserve this unpaid labour. He wants to stop. He wants to quit. He wants to leave. Let them go back to their lives, not have to chase a forgetful child across the desert on half-written notes and the faint promise of caps at the end. He lays down, curling up and using his bag as a pillow. He's facing the wall, so no one sees him quietly begin crying. He wants the family that he can't remember, vague memories of love and warmth made physical. He's so alone.

ED-E beeps above him. They're worried, and he looks up at the eyebot. He found one audio log, and ED-E seems familiar to him. Not familiar in that he knew the robot, but that they've done similar things. The eyebot lands next to him and goes into sleep mode. Almost like a dog. Marshal wants a dog. He goes to sleep.

 

His hands shake. He can't write. Clay mixed with water makes it useable, and he smears it on walls, singing old hymns as he slowly creates a mural. It looks odd, like some sort of coded message, and he waves to Raul with a red-stained hand and begins a conversation in the languages he knows. It's easier, working in Spanish, he doesn't have to translate his thoughts before speaking them. He asks about Mexico, about Raul's childhood, about being a ghoul, about _everything_ and he creates a tree made of mud on a bombed-out corner store while the sun slowly rises behind him.

"Have you ever been to the east coast?" Marshal asks.

"Nope." He nods, offering clay. Raul declines.

 

They're drinking in the Outpost on the edge of the Mojave. Marshal talked to the sniper about Nipton, and they've gotten a small folding table and old chairs to sit at. The place stinks, too many bodies, open bottles, and everything is coated in dirt. Marshal wipes dust from his face, managing to make it _worse_ , and leaves a handprint on his forehead like a brand. He gets as much water as he can. Boone reaches over him to get beer and whiskey, Raul gets sarsaparilla, Veronica wants some of Marshal's water, and Arcade just takes a nuka-cola and stares at it.

Marshal's sitting on his knees, hunched over the table oddly and wiggling as he looks around at everyone in the building, apparently taking in as much information as he can for whatever purpose. He gets up, running for a woman at the bar and Boone watches their conversation with a spotter's gaze. He turns and points at their group, smile wide and eyes wider, and the woman says something while smirking. Marshal nods, and walks out of the room, apparently finding something else to look at. Boone gets up, following quickly and finds Marshal talking to the man in charge.

"Hi, why are all your people stuck?" he asks bluntly.

"The type to come right out and say stuff, ain't you. We've got a pest problem on the main road, and we can't go out and deal with it."

"Oh, this is where you ask for my help right? Because I can help!" Marshal says excitedly.

"I wasn't going to, but since you volunteered, sure. Tell you what. You get rid of the pests, I can find you something in repayment." The ranger says. Marshal nods excitedly.

"I can do that! I'll go do it right now!" he slams into Boone on his way out. "Hi-- we got to go step-- some things on the--"

"I know." Boone tells him.

"Oh good come on." Marshal takes his hand and drags him back to the others. "Bugs!"

"What?" Veronica asks.

"We got bugs! In the road, gotta stomp 'em!" Marshal says excitedly.

"Course boss, just lemme finish this." Raul tells him.

 

They stomp the bugs, and Marshal has goo on his shoes as he runs back to the Outpost.


End file.
